a reluctant comfort
by BoltAcid
Summary: They discuss Ptolemy... and maybe themselves. A little. Bart/Nat


"Tell me about him."

It was dark in the small room, the shadows taking joy in jumping across the walls like elastic marionettes. There was no breeze hitting the cracks in the window by the small desk, there was no sound but the rasps of the boy's own breathing and Ptolemy's palms tugging at the bed sheets both were currently occupying. It was a little bit fitting, but not welcomed in the least. Maybe imminent.

So Bartimaeus played dumb.

"Talking to oneself isn't very attractive, Nat. Kind of suggests you're slightly demented. Or stupid."

And for once, Bartimaeus' expectations were smothered when the frustrated echo that usually accompanied the end of his verbal insults was nowhere to be heard. It made him itchy.

They were laying back to back on the cheap hotel bed that smelled like cigarette butts and flowery detergent, Bartimaeus occupying one pillow and Nathaniel the other. It was late into the night and all the candles were blown out, leaving nothing but the casting light from the moon to give them any implication of which way was the bathroom when they needed to go. It was chilly, but then again, it always was in London.

And Nathaniel was curious and Bartimaeus was old and really, he didn't need this. He had more history on his big toe than this kid could ever hope to gather by pouring himself over ancient scripts, weathered words or garbled, biblical gibberish that in the end meant nothing at all. He was Barti-fucking-maeus. _He_ was the one asking the questions, demanding the answers.

But he said nothing, none of the hyped up baloney he had readied in his mind to spew smartly at Nathaniel's turned back, and instead decided he wasn't suited for the quiet anyways, so what the hell.

"I called him Ptolemy." He plowed in. Somewhere in his head, he ascertained that his former master was too humble for formal introductions. "A branch in royalty. Related to pillaging apes."

Bartimaeus took a breath and measured the seconds on Ptolemy's burnt colored fingertips.

"He was a smart kid, you know? Too bad he cared a little too much." He instinctively curled in on himself because a storm was stirring the contents of his stomach into a chemically charged fruit salad. It was like his insides were set on morphing into a blender, something he wasn't too distinctively happy about.

He soundlessly started when he felt Nathaniel's side of the bed shift, body heat swarming like angry mites around them. He didn't speak, only inhaled and exhaled softly in a stitched rhythm, like the sound of a ticking clock. It was constant and seemingly never-ending and distantly, Bartimaeus wondered if he had fallen asleep.

"Too much?" was the indiscernible whisper of Nathaniel's voice, surprisingly alert, but minutely lagging. It caught Bartimaeus almost off-guard, but he didn't sympathize, seeing as he himself was two thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine years tired too long.

"Yeah."

There was silence after that and the fruit salad had evolved to a fruit puree, draping the inside of Bartimaeus' pixie-dust covered intestines like warm molasses. Something sparked in the thin air between them and Nathaniel knew there were no more questions that should be asked. No more hearth of memories to prod at and set aflame. He knew.

But Nathaniel had always only been prompted when forewarned.

"He died, then."

"Don't we all at some time?" Bartimaeus hissed bitterly, trace of mad laughter dribbling off Ptolemy's lips. This kid-

"What happened?" Nathaniel pressed without missing a beat. His fists were tangled in the thick cotton of the spread under him, trembling and disgustingly pallid, half hemisphere of his face sinking into the sour smell of the hotel's pillow. He clung to it because he was convinced that that was the reason he couldn't sleep. The reason his mind's eye was fogged and crazed and searching for conclusions to questions he wasn't worthy enough to ask.

He heard the demon's tongue click against the roof of his mouth. It was already painfully obvious that he wasn't obliged to answer.

"I made a stupid mistake that left us at the mercy of his enemies. I was the only one left with him when-"

A pause without movement or distress. Just a pause, just there. Reminiscent.

"He spared my life by dooming his." Bartimaeus sighed listlessly. And the wind was still soundless, the night still clear of rest, the room still empty except for the boy at his side taking in the demon's words like some kind of contorted version of Swans of Araby, the bed time story edition.

"He dismissed me just as they laid seize on us. That's it." Bartimaeus winced at how Ptolemy's bones popped as he shifted him on his back, staring at the mold stains dominating regions of the ceiling. He rubbed the crick in neck while picking out close to seventeen and three spider-webs before Nathaniel's breathing became noticeable again.

"Oh." and it was just that, just one outlet of breath, his lips forming a non-shape like he wasn't sorry, but didn't want to not be. It wasn't as if his skinned apologies would bring the egyptian ptolemy back, anyways.

He carefully traced the shadows dripping from the dresser, the desk, the bathroom door. He thought about the way Bartimaeus' hair was soft and sheen, moved with his body when he fought. The hues of his flesh and how they darkened around his eyes; eyes that were calculating, filled with a wise familiarance. It was slightly sad to think that he had been staring at the face of a boy who had been dead for years all this time, even if it was ignorant of him to expect anything different. Besides, what was this life of his if anything but some troublesome, storybook tragedy?

By the time Nathaniel turned on his side and buried his nose in the crook of Bartimaeus' neck his tan arms were already enveloping Nathaniel's frame. A clipped laugh left his pale lips.

"Well, at least you don't ever have to worry about _me_ sparing you." he murmured slowly, kicking at the bedsheets tangled around his legs and lifting his palms to tangle in the demon's tussled hair. He heard Bartimaeus chuckle, could _feel_ that bitter smile curl around his jaw in time with his grip. He maneuvered a dry kiss to magician's brow.

"Let's hope not."

As they slept, it began to rain.


End file.
